He Who Fears the Wolf (18 page)

He knew the woods well, and he very soon found the path that he had taken hundreds of times before. His footsteps, which were heavier now that no-one could hear him, made the birds stop singing, as if they sensed the terrible weapon that he carried. Kannick stayed on the path that led west of Halldis's farm. He didn't want to get too close. The thought of the dead woman bothered him too much, and he knew that if he caught sight of the house again and its front door and steps, everything would come rushing back to him with all its horror. And that wasn't where the arrows were. It Was the arrows he wanted to find. After he found them, he'd try to shoot a crow or two before he went home. Maybe he'd even have time to put the bow back so that Margunn would never know it had been missing. He'd done it before. Kannick was amused by people like Margunn who always thought the best of others. It was like a religion with her, something about which she felt a moral obligation. Like the time he exchanged a 1,000-kroner note in the cash box with 500 kroner, and she couldn't let herself believe that any of them would do such a thing. So she blamed her own faulty memory, saying that "all the notes look alike these days".

Kannick trudged on. Although he was fat, he was reasonably fit, but even so he was breathing harder, and he was sweating. As he walked he could feel himself steadily drifting into his favourite fantasy. A secret space that no-one knew about, where he almost forgot time and place, and the trees around him changed shape and became an exotic forest with a rushing river far in the distance. He was Chief Geronimo from the mountains of Arizona. His mission was to find 16 horses so as to win the beautiful Alope as his bride. He shut his eyes, opening them only for brief intervals so as not to stumble.

The wind whispers Nimo, Nimo. In his bed he had 500 white scalps. He caressed the case with his hand and thought, as the great chief had thought, everything has power. Touch it, and it will touch you.

Once very far away he heard a dog barking. Otherwise the woods were at peace.

Morgan could feel the sweat starting to pour down his forehead. The muzzle of a gun was wavering in front of him. Perhaps he wasn't wide awake. Maybe the infection that was spreading through his body was giving him these surreal visions. Fevered hallucinations.

He looked at Errki and thought what hell it must be for him to constantly see visions like this, threats of death and destruction and punishment, insane terrors, year after year.

"I'm sick," he moaned. "I think I'm going to throw up."

He had slept for a long time. The light outside had changed, and the shadows had grown longer.

Errki noticed that Morgan's skin had taken on a yellowish tinge. He lowered the pistol.

"Go ahead and be sick," he said. "The floor in here is filthy enough, it won't make a difference."

"Where the hell did you get that gun? I saw you chuck it in the water!" Morgan struggled to sit up and take a closer look. "You had it all along, didn't you?"

He curled up in a ball to make himself less of a target. "Why didn't you use it on the old woman? They said on the radio that you beat her to death!"

Errki felt anger begin to boil in his cheeks. He raised the pistol again.

Morgan screamed, "Go ahead and shoot. I don't give a damn!" It surprised him, but he realised that he meant it, that he just didn't care any more.

"You'll have to go to the doctor," Errki said.

The gun shook. If Errki fired now, he was going to be hit he was that close.

"Since when did you start worrying about my health? Do you think I'm going to believe that? Do you think anyone would bother to listen to what a lunatic has to say? Ha! I don't have the strength to go back down to the road. I'm too ill. I feel faint. Cold sweats, that's a sign of shock, isn't it?"

He lay back down and closed his eyes. The lunatic might very well shoot him. He lay there motionless, waiting for the shot. He'd read somewhere that it didn't hurt much to be shot, it just felt like a big jolt in your body, and then it was over.

Errki stared at Morgan's nose. It had swollen up and taken on a hideous blue colour. He ran his tongue over his teeth. He could still remember the taste of skin and fat in his mouth, and then the sickening taste of blood.

Morgan was still waiting. No shot came.

"Goddamn it," he groaned. "You've really made a mess of things. I'm going to die of blood poisoning."

Errki let his arms fall to his sides. "I'll shed a tear for you."

"Go to hell!"

"You're nothing but an egg in the hands of a child."

"Cut out that crazy bullshit!"

Morgan was caught up in some kind of farce, he was sure of it. Not a single thing about this day seemed
real.

"Can't you see that it's infected? I'm shaking with cold, man."

"Go ahead and call for your mama," Errki said. "I won't tell anyone."

Morgan snorted miserably. "Call for your own mama."

"She's dead."

"I'm not surprised. You probably killed her too."

Errki wanted to reply. The words were on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out. He stopped himself.

"Can I borrow your jacket?" Morgan mumbled. "I'm freezing." He glanced at Errki. "What's wrong with you? You look so weird."

"She stumbled on the stairs."

Errki tensed all his muscles and clutched the gun hard. It was so easy, they were just words, but they had betrayed him, had spilled out on their own, without letting him think. Suddenly he dropped to the floor. The gun slid over to the wall, and he heard the little crash as it hit. He bent nearly double, as if convulsing, trying to hold everything in with his hands. It poured out of him. He could sense the smell of his own insides, spoiled meat, waste products, venom and bile. Little, shiny blisters that burst, the gurgling sound of slimy organs being squeezed together and spraying out, air and gas that made the strangest noises. He squirmed around on the floor, wallowing in his own misery.

"Are you going to get sick now, too?" Morgan said in horror. "You can't. You have to go for help! I'd rather sit in jail for a while than die of tetanus in this shithouse. You know the way, so go and get somebody, damn it, and we can get out of here!"

There was no answer. Errki groaned and thrashed around, his shoes banging against the floor. It sounded as if someone were beating him, as if someone were yanking and tearing at him and tossing him around. After a while he started coughing and gasping, or maybe he was belching and vomiting. Morgan shuddered. Dear God, what a madhouse! Something in this room had poisoned them both. Maybe there was a curse in the cracks of the floorboards that had begun seeping out as soon as they walked into the hut. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had been inside that bank, pointing the gun. They must have sent people out to search, they must have found the car! Why had they put that damn tarpaulin over it?

Errki grew still down on the floor. He was lying there, breathing hard. Morgan glanced at the gun.

"That was quite an attack, wasn't it?" he said gently. "What's going on?"

Errki began gathering up his body, piece by piece. To Morgan it looked as if he were searching for something that he'd lost. His black hair fell in his eyes as he fumbled like a blind man.

"Are you seeing things?" Morgan asked uneasily. "Could you get me the whisky?"

Errki pulled himself into a sitting position. He was bent over, holding on to his stomach, with his eyes closed. Every muscle in his body was wound as tight as a steel spring. Drool was sliding down his chin.

"Don't nag me," he gurgled.

"I didn't mean to nag you. It's just that I'm freezing. I thought you might lend me your jacket. Is there any whisky left? Could you take a look, after you're done with . . . your attack?"

"I said, don't nag me!"

There was a faint rustling sound from his polyester trousers as Errki finally stood up. He walked across the room, hunched over like an old man, still clutching his stomach. First he picked up the gun, then he went into the bedroom. His jacket was on the bed, rolled up into a pillow. He snatched it, keeping one hand on his stomach, then tottered back to the living room. The bottle stood next to the radio, and it had no top. He picked it up and took a swallow as he stared out at the water. His body needed time to calm down. This time he had split in half without the slightest warning. The life that lay ahead of him didn't seem very appealing. He stared at the dark surface of the water. Not a ripple. The water was dead. Everything was dead. Nobody really wants you. They just want what you can give them. Morgan wants your jacket and the whisky. Do you have anything else to give, Errki?

He stood holding the jacket, drinking the whisky. He could put the jacket over Morgan. A friendly gesture. The question was, did it make any difference? Did it make life worth living?

"Don't drink it all!"

Errki shrugged. "You've just got a slight drinking problem," he said vaguely.

"My nose hurts like hell."

"Plundering together is a joy. Dying together is a party," Errki said, handing him the bottle. Morgan drank until tears filled his eyes, then put the bottle down, gasping for air. He tucked up his knees and lay down on his side, as if making room for Errki to sit at the end of the sofa. Either he would sit down, or else he would shoot him. But he no longer felt threatened, and he didn't know why.

Errki hesitated. He looked at the place on the sofa and realised that it was meant for him. Cautiously he put the jacket over Morgan's shoulders. A chorus of laughter rose up from the cellar and roared in his ears.

"Shut up!" he shouted, annoyed.

"I didn't say a word," Morgan said. "What on earth do they say to you, anyway? Your voices. Tell me about them, tell me what it's like. Then at least I'll die a wiser man."

The whisky was burning hot in his stomach; he was already feeling better. "Why do you listen to them? You know they're not really there, don't you? I once heard that crazy people know that they're crazy. That's what I don't understand. I hear voices, they say. Damn it, I do too, once in a while. Inner voices, like in my imagination. But I know that they're just imaginary, and it would never occur to me to do what they say."

"Except when they tell you to rob a bank, I suppose?" Errki said.

"Hey, that was my own decision."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I can recognise my own voice when I hear it."

Errki was still staring at the empty place on the sofa. Morgan looked at him with genuine curiosity. "Tell me about them. Can you see what they look like? Do they have fangs and green scales? Do they ever say anything nice? You shouldn't let them get to you. Christ, I thought they were going to finish you off. Maybe I should talk to them. Maybe they'd listen to an outsider."

Morgan giggled. "Mad dogs and children often have to be dealt with by the neighbours."

With great effort he pulled himself into a sitting position next to Errki, lifted one hand and tapped Errki three times on the forehead. "Hey, you in there! Stop terrorising the boy. He's exhausted. Find some other skull to plunder. Enough is enough!"

Errki blinked uncertainly. Morgan sounded dead serious. He began to snicker.

"Is there more than one? A whole gang?"

"Yes. Two."

"Two against one? Damned cowardly. Tell one of them to get lost, and then you should have it out with the one who's boss, man to man."

Errki laughed, nervously. "You don't have to worry about the Coat. It just lies in the corner, shivering."

"The Coat?"

Morgan looked at him in surprise. The full extent of the boy's madness was finally becoming clear to him.

"It hung on a hook in the hall."

Time abruptly spun backwards. Everything came back to him as it had once been. He saw glimpses of faces and hands, raised eyebrows, turned backs, silk and velvet, reels of thread in many colours. He flew backwards along a road full of potholes, lined with green ditches, and approached the house. The door open, the narrow hall, the stairs leading up. He was sitting on a stair, almost at the top. His father had built the stairs out of pine. The wood was full of narrow, squinting eyes that were always watching him.

"It just hung there. Father's coat. It didn't have anything in it, just air. Shivering, shifting in the draught from the attic. One time it turned inside out, and at the same instant she tumbled down and set the air in motion."

"Tumbled down?" Morgan gave him a quizzical look.

"My mother. She slipped on the stairs. I pushed her."

"Why did you do that?" Morgan lowered his voice. "Did you hate her?"

"I told everybody that I pushed her."

"But you didn't? Or aren't you sure? Why did you say that you had?"

Errki saw the images in front of him, flickering above the rough timber. He raised his hand and pointed. Involuntarily Morgan turned to follow his gaze. The only thing he saw was the filthy wall. Errki was silent.

"You know what?" Morgan said, hauling himself up into a better position. "Wouldn't it be great if your voices could talk to the other voices instead of to you? I mean, to the voices of the other patients in the asylum. Then they could fight among themselves and leave all of you in peace. Damn, sometimes I'm a fucking genius. You know how you should get rid of them? Use a good old tactic. Set them up against each other, and they'll end up obliterating each other. Give me the bottle!"

Errki picked up the bottle from the floor and held it in his hand.

"Give it to me. I want more!"

Morgan stretched out his arm for the bottle. Errki held on to it. "The one who fights the source will die of thirst," he said gravely. Then he let him have it.

Morgan took two gulps. "Why did your mother fall down the stairs? Tell me about it. We can pretend I'm your doctor. I'm good at that, you just have to give me a chance. Come on, tell Uncle Morgan. Talk about it, my friend, and it will be all right."

He gave a low chuckle. He was very drunk.

Errki's hands began fumbling over his thighs, clad in the black trousers. He put one hand on the gun and felt it settle down. His hand fitted the gun like a glove. There was a significance to that; it meant something.

"She did sewing for people."

"She was a seamstress?"

"Bridal gowns made of silk. Suits and coats. Or customers brought old clothes that had to be ripped up and resewn. That was what she did most. She ripped up old suits."

"Have a drink," Morgan interrupted him. "It's tough to tear open old memories."

Errki took a drink. The cellar was silent. The dust had settled, everything was grey. For a wild moment he thought they might even be gone. In the silence his voice became crystal clear. His own voice. The words weren't planned in advance, they came gradually to life, and if he felt doubtful and held them back, new words appeared, wanting to be born. One word led to another, and he was powerless to stop them.

"I was playing on the stairs," he said quietly. "I was eight years old."

You weren't playing. You had set a trap. Let's not disguise the facts, we were there and saw everything. The Coat saw you, it was hanging in the hall.

Errki moaned. His rage was growing stronger and stronger. Or was it despair? How could he sit here with his mouth open, letting this rubbish spill out? Sickness, death and misery, snails, worms and toads. He tossed his head angrily. Morgan was listening. Errki could feel him listening, in a thoroughly physical way, like skin against skin, and he couldn't stand to be touched. Not even by Sara with the wave. In his mind he heard the lovely harp that accompanied her voice.

"Why on the stairs?" Morgan was still drinking. For the moment he had no plan other than to get stinking drunk. A short-sighted but pleasant goal. "I mean, that's a hell of a place to play."

"The stairs," Errki said heavily. "The attic. The light in the hall was on. I could hear the sound of the sewing machine. Like a clock ticking. I was playing on the stairs because I wanted to be near her."

"So the stage is set," Morgan said, "and the play can begin. The light is on, the sewing machine is going, and little Errki is eight years old."